If that hat had occupied its proper place it would have been perched
upon a stake to scare the sparrows away from the young peas, but the
wretched weather-beaten structure was upon the old man's head, matching
well with his coat, as he busied himself that pleasant morning dibbling
in broccoli-plants with the pointed handle of an old spade.
The soft genial rain had fallen heavily during the night, thoroughly
soaking the ground, which sent forth a delicious steaming incense
quivering like visible transparent air in the morning sun. There had
been a month's drought, and flower and fruit had languished; but on the
previous evening dark clouds had gathered above the woods, swept over
King's Castor, and, as Gemp said, "For twelve mortal hours the rain had
poured down."
Old Gemp was wrong: it had not poured, but stolen softly from the kindly
heavens, as if every fertilising drop had been wrapped in liquid silver
velvet, and no flower was beaten flat, no thirsty vegetable soiled, but
earth and plant had drunk and drunk during the long night to wake up
refreshed; the soil was of a rich dark hue, in place of drab, and the
birds were singing as if they meant to split their throats.
Dr Luttrell's garden was just far enough out of the town for the birds
to sing. They came so far, and no farther. Once in a way, perhaps,
some reckless young blackbird went right into the elder clump behind the
mill, close up to the streets, and hunted snails from out of the hollow
roots, and from the ivy that hung over the stone wall by the great
water-tank in Thickens's garden; but that was an exception. Only one
robin and the sparrows strayed so far in as that.
But with the doctor's garden it was different. There was the thick
hawthorn hedge that separated it from the north road, a hedge kept
carefully clipped, and with one tall stem every twelve yards that was
never touched, but allowed to grow as it pleased, and to blossom every
May and June into almond-scented snow, as it was blooming now. Then
there was the great laurel hedge, fifteen feet high, on the north; the
thick shrubbery about the red-bricked gabled house, and the dense ivy
that covered it from the porch upwards and over Millicent's window, and
then crawled right up the sides to the chimney stacks.
There were plenty of places for birds, and, as they were never
disturbed, the doctor's was a haven where nests were made, eggs laid,
and young hatched, to the terrible detriment of the doctor's fruit; but
he only gave his handsome grey head a rub and laughed.
That delicious June morning as the line was stretched over the bed that
had been so long prepared, and the plants that had been nursed in a
frame were being planted, the foreshortening of the old man's figure was
rather strange, so strange that as he came along the road looking over
the hedge, and taking in long breaths of delicious scents, the Reverend
Christie Bayle, the newly-appointed curate of St Anthony's, paused to
watch the planting.
He was tall, slight, and pale, looking extremely youthful in his black
clerical attire; but it was the pallor of much hard study, not of
ill-health, for as he had come down the road it was with a free elastic
stride, and he carried his head as a man does who feels that he is young
and full of hope, and thinks that this world is, after all, a very
beautiful place.
But it was a delicious June morning.
True, but the Reverend Christie Bayle was just as light and elastic when
he walked back to his lodgings, through the rain on the previous night,
and without an umbrella. He had caught himself whistling, too, several
times, and checked himself, thinking that, perhaps, he ought to cease;
but somehow--it was very dark--he was thoroughly light-hearted, and he
had the feeling that he had made a poor weak old woman more restful at
heart during his chat with her by her bedside, and so he began whistling
again.
He was not whistling now as he stopped short, looking over the hedge,
watching the foreshortened figure coming down towards him, with a leg on
either side of the line, the dibber in one hand, a bunch of
broccoli-plants in the other. The earth was soft, and the old man's arm
strong, while long practice had made him clever. He had no rule, only
his eye and the line for guidance; but, as he came slowly down the row,
he left behind him, at exactly two feet apart, the bright green
tightly-set plants.
_Whig_! went the dibber: in went a plant; there was a quick poke or two,
the soft earth was round the stem, and the old man went on till he
reached the path, straightened himself, and began to softly rub the
small of his back with the hand that held the tool.
"Good-morning," said the curate.
"Morning."
"Ladies at home?"
"No, they've gone up to the town shopping. Won't be long."
"Do you think they'd mind if I were to wait?"
"Mind? No. Come and have a look round."
"Peculiarity of the Lincolnshire folk, that they rarely say _sir_ to
their superiors," mused the Reverend Christie Bayle, as he entered the
garden. "Perhaps they think we are not their superiors, and perhaps
they are right; for what am I better than that old gardener?"
"Nice rain."
"Delicious! By Geo--I--ah, you have a beautiful garden here."
The old man gave him a droll look, and the curate's, face turned
scarlet, for that old college expression had nearly slipped out.
"Yes, it's a nice bit of garden, and pretty fruitful considering. You
won't mind my planting another row of these broccoli?"
"Not a bit. Pray go on, and I can talk to you. Seems too bad for me to
be doing nothing, and you breaking your back."
"Oh, it won't break my back; _I'm_ used to it. Well, how do you like
King's Castor?"
"Very much. The place is old and quaint, and I like the country. The
people are a little distant at present. They are not all so sociable as
you are."
"Ah, they don't know you yet. There: that's done. Now I'm going to
stick those peas."
He thrust the dibber into the earth, kicked the soil off his heavy
boots, and came out on to the path rubbing his hands and looking at
them.
"Shake hands with you another time."
"To be sure. Going to stick those peas, are you?"
"Yes. I've the sticks all ready."
The old man went to the top of the path, and into a nook where, already
sharpened, were about a dozen bundles of clean-looking ground-birch
sticks full of twigs for the pea tendrils to hold on by as they climbed.
The old fellow smiled genially, and there was something very pleasant in
his clear blue eyes, florid face, and thick grey beard, which--a
peculiarity in those days--he wore cut rather short, but innocent of
razor.
"Shall I carry a bundle or two down?" said the curate.
"If you like."
The Reverend Christie Bayle did like, and he carried a couple of bundles
down to where the peas were waiting their support. And then--they
neither of them knew how it happened, only that a question arose as to
whether it was better to put in pea-sticks perpendicular or diagonal,
the old man being in favour of the upright, the curate of the slope--
both began sticking a row, with the result that, before a quarter of a
row was done, the curate had taken off his black coat, hung it upon the
gnarled Ripston-pippin-tree, rolled up his shirt sleeves over a pair of
white, muscular arms, and quite a race ensued.
Four rows had been stuck, and a barrow had been fetched and a couple of
spades, for the digging and preparing of a patch for some turnips, when,
spade in hand, the curate paused and wiped his forehead. "You seem to
like gardening, parson."
"I do," was the reply. "I quite revel in the smell of the newly turned
earth on a morning like this, only it makes me so terribly hungry."
"Ah, yes, so it does me. Well, let's dig this piece, and then you can
have a mouthful of lunch with me."
"Thank you, no; I'll help you dig this piece, and then I must go. I'll
come in another time. I want to see more of the garden."
There was about ten minutes' steady digging, during which the curate
showed that he was no mean hand with the spade, and then the old man
paused for a moment to scrape the adherent soil from the broad blade.
"My master will be back soon," he said; "and then there'll be some
lunch; and, oh! here they are."
The Reverend Christie Bayle had been so intent upon lifting that great
spadeful of black earth without crumbling, that he had not heard the
approaching footsteps, and from behind the yew hedge that sheltered them
from the flower-garden, two ladies and a tall, handsome-looking man
suddenly appeared, awaking the curate to the fact that he was in his
shirt sleeves, digging, with his hat on a gooseberry-bush, his coat in
an apple-tree, and his well-blackened boots covered with soil.
He was already flushed with his exercise. He turned of a deeper red
now, as he saw the pleasant-looking, elderly lady give her silvery-grey
curls a shake, the younger lady gaze from one to the other as if
astonished, and the tall, dark gentleman suppress a smile as he raised
his eyebrows slightly, and seemed to be amused.
The curate thrust his spade into the ground, bowed hurriedly, took a
long step and snatched his hat from the gooseberry-bush, and began to
hastily roll down his sleeves.
"Oh, never mind them," said his companion. "Adam was not ashamed of his
arms. Here, my dears, this is our new curate, Mr Bayle, the first
clergyman we've had who could use a spade. Mr Bayle--my wife, my
daughter Millicent. Mr Hallam, from the bank."
The Reverend Christie Bayle's face was covered with dew, and he longed
to beat a retreat from the presence of the pleasant-faced elderly lady;
to make that retreat a rout, as he met the large, earnest grey eyes of
"my daughter Millicent," and saw as if through a mist that she was fair
to see--how fair in his agitation he could not tell; and lastly, to
rally and form a stubborn front, as he bowed to the handsome,
supercilious man, well-dressed, perfectly at his ease, and evidently
enjoying the parson's confusion.
"We are very glad you have come to see us, Mr Bayle," said the elderly
lady, smiling, and shaking hands warmly. "Of course we knew you soon
would. And so you've been helping Dr Luttrell."
"The doctor!" thought the visitor with a mental groan; "and I took him
for the gardener!"